


Penitence and Requiem

by Whyistheskyblue



Category: Lackadaisy
Genre: Cannon Typical Violence, Gangs, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, New York, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, St. Louis, back story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:43:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whyistheskyblue/pseuds/Whyistheskyblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Started writing/posting something about Mordecai, didn't like it, trying again from a slightly different approach.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>At a glance, Mordecai and Rocky are nothing alike. One refuses to love; the other loves too much too fast. One is intelligent, calculating, and cruel; the other is kind, a little simple minded, and caring. But perhaps, when you look closer, the lines begin to blur between who is what, and what made them that way. </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rocky: Beginnings and Endings

St. Louis  
1918

Rocky drags his feet against the sidewalk, scuffing the already worn leather of his shoes. He is tired, and he knows nothing good waits for him at home. His aunt will see the black eye and split lip, and promptly tell him to get out again. She wouldn't have someone looking like _that_ in her house. It won't be the first time Rocky had spent the night on a park bench because of his aunts' sensibilities, and he strongly suspects it won't be the last. 

Freckle comes running down the steps as soon as he hears the screen door slam, stopping short when he sees the slumped shoulders and hat pulled too low. 

“Rocky?” he asks, voice small and innocent as nine year olds are wont to be. 

“Heya, Freckle.” He somehow manages to summon a grin. It's a pathetic attempt, a ghost of his normal expression, but it stands between them like a flag of truce. Heavier footsteps clip neatly out of the kitchen, a soldiers march across the battle field of child rearing. They to stop abruptly, as if their owner became suddenly distracted. 

“Roark Rickaby!” His aunts' voice is shrill. 

“I'll go pack a bag, auntie.” Rocky offers up a better grin, and wonders if the corners of his mouth are beginning to wear thin; if one day they'll simply crack and split, rendering him unable to smile. He wonders if that would be such a bad thing. 

“How do you get yourself into such trouble, boy?” Rocky's smile wavers. He started tenth grade this year. He was still a little too fast, a little too noisy. He was always getting farther and farther ahead until finally the distance between himself and everybody else was too great and someone had to knock him back down. 

Rocky collects bruises as reminders, the way some people tie string around their fingers. The back of his left shoulder is to do his math homework, so that Alan O' Bryant had something to copy. His right side is to not walk though Redmond territory. The fingers along his biceps are to not flirt with every pretty girl he sees. Today's black eye and split lip are so that he'll remember to give Mozy a nickel before he buys lunch in the cafeteria again this week. Rocky needs the bruises so he'll remember. Without them, he's too busy being three steps ahead of everyone else to do the little things. 

Freckle trails him to the closet he keeps his things in. The room is on again off again his, depending on whether auntie has a tenant or not. The younger boy sits on the bed, swinging his legs and scuffing his shoes together. _He shouldn't do that._ Rocky remembers, feeling the ghosts of a thin rod up and down the backs of his legs. _They're new._ He opens his mouth to say as much, before snapping it shut and throwing a change of clothes into his bag. Fre – Calvin isn't him. Calvin is allowed to scuff his new shoes and not say thank you before and after every meal and isn't expected to do the washing up or the lawn chores. Calvin is a McMurray. Calvin belongs here and has nice things because his mother works hard. Roark has third hand clothes and shoes that need to resoled again by the grace and goodness of his aunts' heart. 

“So long then, Freckle.” He's grinning again. “See you in a couple of days.” He slings his bag over his shoulder, picks up his violin case, and is gone. He smiles at auntie again and slips away. 

*

It's that awkward time between sunset and when the street lamps flicker into life, and Rocky is taking a break from playing. It's been a profitable night; he got a good corner, he looks mostly respectable, and people are in a giving spirit as they feel the cold air nip under their coats and wish everyone had a warm place to go to tonight. If he's lucky, some bar might need someone to sweep up and is willing to let that someone sleep in the backroom. He's feeling lucky tonight. 

The street light flickers on overhead, a signal to the respectable folk that the streets are once again safe to walk. Rocky thinks he can hear the city sigh its relief as stretches out. His long limbs were becoming cramped from sitting curled up for so long. The tune he decides to play is a simple one. A nursery rhyme with a fast enough tempo and room for variation to catch peoples attention while comforting them with something vaguely familiar. 

Rocky loves to play. When he's performing there's nothing but him and the instrument; he can exist in the moment, not in future. Which is why he doesn't notice auntie until he bobs up from his bow, his smile no longer forced but a genuine expression of happiness. People shuffle forward to drop pennies in his hat, their smiles as real as his. He waits for the crowd to clear before beaming at his aunt expectantly. Maybe she's here to tell him he can come back. He's feeling lucky tonight. 

Instead she drops a bag at his feet. 

“You can't come back, Roark” She sighs. “I just can't have this kind of behavior around Calvin.” _What kind of behavior?_ Rocky wonders. He didn't see this coming, which is odd for him. He's normally far enough ahead to see all the possibilities. 

“Okay.” He tries to smile, one more time, for her. _What kind of behavior?_ He wonders a little more desperately, as if if he thinks it loud enough she'll answer. He's been doing well. He does his chores and minds his manners. He makes good grades and doesn't back-chat the teachers. They've been talking about bumping him up a grade level again. Saying maybe if he struggled with his school work a little his peers wouldn't be jealous of him and he'd have an easier time. Jealous is an odd word, Rocky takes a moment to reflect. It implies he has something worth wanting. 

“You can stop by the house tomorrow to pick up anything I might have missed.” She's saying. Rocky missed whatever explanation she gave, assuming she gave one a didn't simply let the moment stretch into uncomfortable silence. “Try and come when Calvin is at school.” She knows he won't leave without telling Freckle good bye. 

“Sure thing, auntie.” He smiles, humming in the back of his throat. 

“Be good. I love you.” She looks sad. He can't imagine why _she_ would look sad. 

“Love you too.” He says instead, and goes back to playing. This time it's something a little slow and melancholy. He doesn't feel lucky anymore. 

*

He times it so that Freckle is just getting home as he's closing the screen door behind him. He's stiff from sleeping curled up behind a dumpster. He's dirty. He hates being dirty. Freckle smiles expectantly, ignoring the sirens in his brain that go off when he sees the bag and the heavy overcoat slung over Rocky's shoulders. It's a present from auntie. It's even new. 

“So long, Freckle. I'm off to seek a great new world.” He's smiling again, that same half maniacal grin that feels a little too sharp but causes people to overlook how distant and sad his eyes are. Freckle knows him too well to fall for it. 

“Why?” The boy wants to know, his eyes sparkling with tears he won't shed until he's safely in his bedroom. _Why indeed?_ Rocky asks. 

“For the reason men have left home since the dawn of time, Freckle my boy.” Are the words that tumble past his lips instead. “To seek adventure in the great outdoors.” The tears threaten to spill over. “I'll write to you. All the adventures this world has to offer will be delivered to your doorstep.” 

“I'll miss you, Rocky.” Freckle rushes forward and throws his arms around his cousin. This was something else Rocky didn't foresee happening. 

“I'll miss you too.” He whispers, patting the younger boy's head. He's surprised to find that it's true.


	2. Mordecai: Beginnings and Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has officially become my pastime for the subway rides when I'm lucky enough to get a seat.

New York  
1918

Mordecai stares at the door, waiting for someone to tell him that he can go home. Or to push him to his knees and shoot him. The later seems more likely given the fact that the gunfire had stopped several minuets ago. 

_Death_ He muses, pacing the small room _is a curious thing._ It is not glamorous, like they make it seem in dime novels; it is not an art, like the preachers and the poets claim. Death is a science. The stopping of the heart, the lack of pulse, the departure of the soul (if you believe that sort of thing). Mordecai is not yet desperate enough to believe. 

The door slips open. 

The man who strides in is not what Mordecai is expecting. His suit is a few seasons out of style and the wrong colors for the city. His smile is genuine, soft lines and crinkles around the corners of his eyes. He wears authority draped across his shoulders as if it was another jacket; naturally and easily. There's a spot of blood on his shirt cuff. _Terribly sorry, sir._ The dead whisper. _Didn't mean to soil your suit._ He is not like the Don's Mordecai knows; those nervous, exacting men who live in fear of each other and their superiors. 

"You're Mordecai Heller." The stranger doesn't ask. Mordecai continues to stare. "Any special reason I'm not dead yet?" 

"There's not anything to be gained by killing you." The answer is crisp and cool, the juxtaposition between the stranger's soft southern drawl and Mordecai's Brooklyn accent painfully obvious. 

"And something to be gained by letting me live?" The stranger's eyes sparkle. This, Mordecai understands. This verbal sparring, with words that weave around each other and clash violently in the space surrounding them. Negotiation, some call it. 

"Potentially." He allows a small smile to flicker around the corners of his lips. "But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don't know your name." The stranger throws back his head and laughs, the sound erupting past his lips and flooding into the room. 

"Your boss never mentioned me?" 

"He was not in the habit of telling his Jewish bookie the inner workings of his business. Not even when said bookie was his primary gunman." Mordecai cocks his eyebrow. 

"Did he give you trouble over being Jewish?" The stranger seems genuinely curious, and Mordecai is once again reminded he is from out-of-town; a neat little euphemism for everybody from anywhere that was not one of the five boroughs. 

"The Italians are Catholic." Mordecai says by way of explaining, needlessly adjusting his cuffs. “I'm lucky his form of Antisemitism is less violent in nature.” He remembers bigger boys and the bruises they loved to litter across his skin. He has always been thin and short when compared to the Irish and Italian boys. _Dark and Slight._ his mother used to smile. _Cold._ Other girls said, put off by his startling green eyes and dark coloring. And the fact he was only as tall (and sometimes shorter) than them. 

“I'm Atlas May.” The stranger clarifies, watching to see if the name triggers any alarms, any witching towards the gun strapped neatly under Mordecai's shoulder. 

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Mordecai frowns, knowing the name sounds familiar; knowing it has some significance that is lying just beyond his grasp at the moment. 

“I run a small gambling den in St. Louis.” Atlas's tone is deceptively casual. Mordecai knows men don't speak of this sort of “business” in everyday conversation, not even to other “businessmen”. The bookie keeps his expression schooled, pushing away the desire to relax into the cadence of the conversation. “And it would appear my bodyguard was killed during the fight.” He says it so easily Mordecai almost cringes. Death, even when one has grown accustomed to it, is not casual. Not when it is someone who was close to you. Mordecai can't help but wonder what sort of man this is, that he speaks of the death of someone who was close to him so nonchalantly. 

“That's,” The gunman pauses to find the right word, “unfortunate.” 

“He was going to sell me out.” The boss smiles. “He was lucky he got to take the easy way out.” 

“Ah.” Mordecai's fingers strum a nervous beat against his thigh. 

“So I would appear to be in need of a new body guard, if you're interested.” Atlas's teeth flash as he smiles in the half light. It is a predatory grin. 

“I suppose I can't really say no.” Mordecai keeps his voice cool, puts on an air of disdain and disinterest. 

“You can.” Atlas laughs, the sound too bright. “You can walk out of this room right now and never see me again. I won't even send someone after those pretty little sisters of yours. But the Family, I can't make any promises for them.” 

“How do you know about them?” The bookie swallows. He hates himself for the nervous tremor that runs through his voice, for the tensing of his muscles, for the sudden dryness of his mouth. 

“Don't worry, I haven't told.” The older man laughs. “But if you stick around, someone else is going to find out.” 

*

Mordecai pushes open the old door, the warped wood sticking the same way it has all his life. The room is the same as it always has been; a little older, a little more worn down perhaps. He toes off his shoes next to the door before advancing further inside. 

“Who's there?” A sharp voice calls from inside. It carries memories of years past, memories that threaten to pull him down into nostalgic musings. 

“Just me, Mamah.” He replies, as if he had never left. 

“A little lost sheep, who has come home again.” She says. He can hear the smile on her lips, can see it in his memory. He follows her voice to the kitchen. 

“It's nice to see you again.” He lies easily. Sickness and death and sickness again have eaten away at her, little by little, until she's but a ghost of the strong, stout woman from his memory. 

“Don't lie to me, boychick. If it was so nice you would come to visit more often.” She scolds softly, pouring water into the kettle. 

“Sorry, Mamah.” This isn't a lie. He opens his mouth before snapping it shut again. 

“Where is your yamaka?” She asks, rummaging through a cupboard. “Don't you know the neighbors will talk?” 

“I've told you, it's not wise to wear it in my line of work.” He sighs, hands flat against the table. _Oh, Mordecai._ The mother in his memory sighs. _Are you ashamed of where you came from?_

“Your line of work?” She snorts. “You mean cooking books for those goyisher Italians?” 

“Yes, book keeping for the Italians.” Mordecai snaps. “It's what's kept everyone in food and shoes and medicine since Taatah died.” They had learned the hard way that doctors and medicines were cheaper than a funeral. 

“Mamah,” A voice calls down the hall, “Is someone there? I heard yelling.” 

“Just your bruder.” She calls back. “Come tell him hello.” Soft footsteps hurry down the hall. The girl, _young woman_ Mordecai corrects himself, is nothing like the sister he left. The person before of him has blossomed into adulthood gracefully. 

“Hello, meeskait.” He teases, mouth dry. 

“Hello, Mordecai.” She replies stiffly, chin tilted stubbornly up. 

“Now Rose.” Their mother sighs. “Don't be that way.” 

“He left us, Mamah. He didn't even come to Esther's wedding.” Her face is rapidly coloring. “What, were you worried the symmetry would be off? Were you worried it would be dirty?” She spits the last word. 

“I was working.” Mordecai protests, forcing the emotion to leave his voice. 

“You're an accountant, momzer. Don't tell me you couldn't get a day off.” Rose snaps. Their mother gasps at her language. Mordecai sighs internally. Of course mother wouldn't tell them what he was doing. Of course she would take the easy road out. 

“I paid for the wedding.” He points out. 

“And now you sit there, in your fancy suit and Taatah's cufflinks. You didn't have to hock them like we had to with Mamah's jewelry.” 

“I was getting a job.” 

“Don't try to explain yourself now.” She shouts over him. “It's too late.” The kettle whistles, the violent sound cutting through the argument. The siblings stare at each other, anger dancing in both their eyes. 

“Would anyone like tea?” Their mother asks, mouth a thin line. “Seeing as that went so well.” 

“I'm afraid I have to go.” Mordecai stands swiftly. “I just came to tell you that I have a new job in St. Louis. And yes, Mamah,” he turns to face her, “I'll still be cooking books for a goy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yiddish translation:  
> Mamah - mother  
> Taatah - father  
> Bruder - brother  
> Boychick - little boy (endearment)  
> Goy (goyisher) - gentile (slur/insult)  
> Meeskait - little ugly one (endearment)  
> Momzer - bastard, untrustworthy


End file.
